of A.J. Burnett, scope rifles, and compasses that point North...

I am at a complete loss with regard to A.J. Burnett's display of incredulous mayhem and uncontrolled devastation last night against the pathetically insipid Toronto Blue Jays...

This is to say, I WOULD hate him with the fire and passion of a thousand suns...but the time for that has come and gone. The depth of emotions welling up from my USUALLY WILLING TO FORGIVE AND FORGET, heart...has evolved into TODAY'S COMPLETE DISGUST AND WILLNGNESS TO ASPHYXIATE, heart. Hate is ineffective. Strangulation would suffice...

However, strangulation might require a step-ladder, 6 minutes alone with A.J., and, if successful, might eventually involve local and/or federal authorities. We have already clearly established, months ago, my predisposition toward authority figures. Me no likey.

Thus...back to the proverbial drawing board: There is a problem. There is no solution.

I don't care much for entertaining the concept of unsolvable problems.

...not where my best interest is concerned...

It is in my best interest not to be entwined with losers and defeat. It is in my best interest for my team to play well. I do not care much for losers and defeat. I would rather stab myself in the eye with a dull end of a half chewed pencil than sit patiently, while delusionally believing defeat is acceptable. It is not.

I consider such defeatest metalities to be rooted in defeatest hypotheses. Such hypoteses are repugnant, egregious, detestible, and just flat out annoyingly borderlining on flagrant Loserdom.

I would never rent an inch of space in Loserdom. I believe solutions exist to all problematic situations. I also believe some problematic situations indicate the need to run, don't walk...and to dust one's feet off from the Loserdom origin to which the problem initially existed. And after said running from said problematic situation, to gleefully kick one's heels in the air while realizing the liberation from said problematic situation...for...even escape can be seen as a profitable solution.

However, there is no escaping A.J....nor his portrayal as Home Run Derby Pitcher for the All-Star Toronto Blue Jays at Yankee Stadium last night.

This problematic situation is not one where escape and gleeful dust-flinging is possible.

The blood-letting to Canadia is over. I hope...

Yet, when a pitcher grants as many runs in ONE INNING as they gave up in the ENTIRE MONTH OF JULY, one must assume a problem is, indeed, at hand.

When a pitcher can sport a 1.99 ERA on May 4th, 2010 and a mere MONTH LATER (June 4th, 2010) enter into a downward spiril of losing EACH AND EVERY GAME (6/4; 6/10; 6/16; 6/21; 6/26; 7/2) one might seriously consider thinking about making a decision as to whether a problem is or is not at hand.

Said problem is at hand. Said problem is one which must be addressed. Said addressing of said problem should be swift and precise. Perhaps mercilessly addressed. I believe this seemingly inconsistent, yet, continual problem of defeat at the hands of A.J. Burnett must be met squarely in the middle of the forehead with the precision of a laser from a scope rifle... equipped with automatic bullet drop compensation, AccuPoint telescopic sights, and Kill Flash filters.

For...the problem with A.J. Burnett may be such that any reasonable and valid solution may seem too evasive or elusive...

But I like to think of the possibility of problem-apprehension.

Like a bank robber, reckessly careening a stolen get-away vehicle down the Pacific Coast Highway while blasting Anthrax's "Metal Thrashing Mad," we must stop this problem by PIT Maneuver...grab the skanky little felon by 4-point restraints and inject us some halcyion on said problem and make the problem do as we say. No Mirandizing. No lawyers necessary. No Bail. Comply. Or else...

In 2007, the Yankees witnessed a similar situation involving a 5-time All Star, 7-time Gold Glove winning pitcher; Mike Mussina. During that season, many similarities we presently enounter with A.J. Burnett, we encountered with Moose. Consistent inconsistency was what we, as fans, grew to expect, know, and endure. By August 27th of that year, Moose had allowed 32 runs in 3 starts and the Brass got upset. It was decided that Moose would be sent down, lose his slot in the rotation, and work through his mechanics. Or else.

The Yankees raised up a (then) unsmarmy and quite effective kid known as Ian Kennedy, (presently with the Arizona Diamondbacks, thank God.)

When Moose returned on September 12, 2007, (after 1 stint of relief pitching...the only time in his career he had ever thrown as a reliever) Moose was from thence forward: GOOD MOOSE.

In 2008 Mike Mussina went on to amass 20 wins in one season, having never accomplished that feat within his 18 seasons as a pitcher. We fans look upon those shaky weeks back in 07 with Kennedy slotted in place of Moose with ironic recollect...one of relief...one of disappointment...and ultimately one of gratitude. For even Moose, himself, admitted his need to address his own mental hurdles of personality, temperance, and his temendous need fora dose of humility. The very Drain-O required to empower, again, a phenominal pitcher who had seemingly imploded after 17 seasons...

Is this scenario plausible or even reasonable for our present-day A.J.? Is A.J. Burnett requiring some sending down to work on mechanics? And if we were to send A.J. down, is there a Kennedy to raise up?

A.J.'s velocity is consistent with his career numbers involving his fastballs and sinkers. Inasmuch as his strike out rates are down, his walks are consistent with his career numbers. If mechanics or injury were suspect, velocity would be effected. It isn't. He is still commanding his fastballs and sinkers...so what gives? He had a 1.99 ERA on May 4th, but presently has a 4.93. WHAT IS UP? Of his 5 starts in April, he lost 1; May outings yielded 4 wins of 6 games started...and then June he lost all 5 starts...July 2nd he went out 6.2 innings, allowed ZERO runs...and went on to win 4 more starts in July, allowing only 7 runs all month...so, yesterday he gives up 7 runs in the 5th inning...???

After his previous outing of July 17, 2010, where he was yanked off the mound after just 2 innings...he went on to explain to the media that he had cut his hands pretending to be Kevin Brown with the clubhouse doors in between the 1st and 2nd inning. This was after lying to his team and manager about cutting himself shaving. Uhm: Red Flag?

Oddly, I haven't heard any excuses for last night's fireworks blasting off the icky bats of 11.5 games behind us: Toronto...

Bottom line is: Last night's shelling of 7 runs in 1 inning...and A.J.'s 6 consecutive losses of June are, indeed, of serious concern. If A.J. performs this way in September and simply hands us a month of losses, what will become of the season? Is there a solution? Is there a problem?

The only possible "Kennedy's," at triple-A Scranton have been on the chopping block for trade fodder. Ivan Nova and Zach McAllister were main candidates for the Danny Haren acquisition. The Brass has been willing to use Nova, but tonight we are handing the game over to Dustin Moseley and his 3.24 ERA. Why would we skim past using Nova or McAllister who clearly have more innings and better ERA's? Because we don't want them to go all Tyler Clippard on us and become worthless to any team looking for major league level pitching, that's why.

So now what? Trust A.J.? Audition kids? Don't forget, we are limiting Phil's hughes innings. Will Sabathia and Vasquez be able to hold the whole house of cards together?

And...I theorize...this is where the hate-of-a-thousand-suns comes in. A.J. Burnett and his $84-million arm had better get a compass and figure out which way is North. If Tampa Bay can amass consistent performances by 5 children earning a total of $9.1-million dollars and match our season of wins and losses...then shame on us for once again assuming more is better.

Forks in the Road and Lightning of Today

As the electrifying buzz of the alarm clock jolted me awake, I stammered across the room to turn it off. The morning air seized every fibre of my being with a thousand frozen prickles...and as I gasped, a rush of fear flooded my barely conscious mind...

Stumbling to the kitchen, while cranking up the heater, I grabbed my Yankee mug and began to make my coffee. The pitch black sky outside, ominously watching me through the kitchen window...the corners of the windows, frosty...leaves swirling with the windy rain, smashing against the frozen glass...my heart began to sink...

I'll never forget that idle Wednesday morning, with it's sadness and anxiety...with it's regrets and fears. That was to be a Wednesday of arrival...a Wednesday of relief...a maiden voyage of victorious relaxation and resolution...

It was supposed to be over...fears, frustration, worry, regret...it was to be a thing of the past by Sunday. Done and done. And yet...here it was...still brewing...still breathing...still defying...ominously mocking...

I opened the front door and was immediately ht by an invisible, frozen wrecking ball of wind. A forceful blast of ice mixed with splinters of rain seized my presence...confronting me...overwhelming me...a force greater than me, insisting I relent...I dropped my head as I entered the world that day...

As I walked to work, maneuvering the umbrella this way and that...amidst the broken branches along the sidewalk...amidst the puddles...I prayed. With sadness and heaviness of heart, I asked God to simply help me...help me with how I was feeling. This was simply a game. Baseball. We are either going to go out there tonight and win, or we will lose. The odds were extremely in our favor...and had been...and I really needed to get a grasp on my emotions...click back into reality...

No team, in the history of baseball had ever come back from a 3-0 deficit and won the remaining 4 games, however, was my next thought. Even in prayer, I couldn't stop my thoughts...the very merry-go-round of thoughts that had been incessant for 4 days...and 4 long nights...

Maybe the Yankees were trying to make the series interesting...maybe it was a tickets/revenue thing...maybe they just weren't taking it all very seriously, having already won the first 3 games...knowing the only goal ahead was to win one more...

But the moment for sobriety was today. My team had sat back and squandered their enormous advantage through three more games...landing themselves in a one-game win or go home scenario...and tonight....tonight...was the verdict.

What if? Is it even possible? Could we lose? Why would we? Exhaling...exhausting my worries in my prayers...I threw out a compromise to God...give me a sign...just a glimmer...the first song I hear on my mp3 player will be that sign...okay?

And God answered.

"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life."

And I knew. The message was delivered. The answer was unquestionable. We were going to lose tonight. We were going to lose in the biggest way possible. History would be made and we would have allowed it.

When the night sky returned to black that night and I was walking home from work...amidst the broken branches, puddles, and wind...I listened to that song again...I knew I would walk through the front door and the television would be on...I knew it would be about the 7th inning, or later...and I knew there might be a chance my understanding of the postcard message from Heaven might be wrong...

It wasn't.

The Yankees went on to lose the 2004 ALCS game 7...the first team in baseball history to lose 4 games in a row after having won the first 3. The Boston Red Sox would continue on in their quest to reach heights they had only ever dreamt...and would become Champions of Baseball for the first time in 86 years...

There was something about that particular loss that knit itself to my heart and soul. One of the most permeating, marrow wrenching, soul drenching defeats I have ever encountered in my life. I mean, Jesus...it is only baseball. It is only a game...

How is it a sports event can entwine itself into the deepest aspects of the heart and soul? I pondered that idea for a long time...many years...even to this day...and my answer is...I don't know.

Nobody likes to lose.

Loss...loss is pain. Whether it be your English Springer Spaniel who had to be put to sleep when you were at school...or your best friend who had to leave you to attend college back east, on a hot summer day, when you couldn't have imagined pain so deep could exist in your 15 years on the planet...

For me...baseball transcends the field...transcends time and space...the victory and defeat on mere grass with mortal players throughout all time has taken on a fourth dimension in my heart and mind...

A spiritual dimension. A passion I cannot convey. I guess my life experiences just seem to coalesce with what I behold when I watch. Bravery, envy, injustice, tenacity...it's all there. The very aspects of this experience known as life...if you listen very closely...open your eyes and absorb this game...it lives. It breathes. It teaches...and those lessons become specific unto you, the beholder...if you listen with your ears closed and see with your soul open...

From 2004 unto this present day, I have had many thoughts back to that black Wednesday morning...and the following days thereafter...the tears...loss...denial...frustration...knowing without a doubt that losing is absolutely possible at any point in time...grasping the reality that stats really, in the end, don't amount to much...

Smiling and shaking my head at teams like Boston...who were able to toe up to the line of failure and challenge it...who were brave enough to believe...and believed so pure-heatedly that their actions would duplicate that belief...who were not moved by odds...who were unwilling to lose...

The jealousy I developed for that spirit in a team...that moxy...that boldness without reason...realizing the complacency and apathy that resided in my own team...

Through the years I have smiled as I have seen that lightning flash of excellence from all over the league...from watching archived games...and I realize, this, too...transcends time and space...

Today...the New York Yankees hold the best record in baseball...and the season holds roughly 40 games remaining...the Red Sox are struggling to salvage a post-season opportunity...the Texas Rangers are knocking on unfamiliar doors...and bats are swingin...strikes are smokin...plays are being made with the bravest and purest of efforts...

Today, I look across the league...this season that is 2009...and I wonder...after so many years of failing and falling and complacency and apathy...what will become of this 2009 Yankee team...

and...the answer comes to me from long ago. The season will end...someone will win...everyone else will lose...and we will roll around to another season...once again...and again...and...

Winning and losing can, indeed, seem like everything...but...in the end...there is no ultimate win...there are silent, 4th inning with 1 out moments of victory...moments of awesome effort from teams like the Pittsburgh Pirates, the Oakland A's, the Kansas City Royals...perfect games, no hitters, hitting the cycle's...

2009 Has been one of the best seasons for baseball since as far back as I can remember...and...whether it goes up or down for our teams, let's remember as this season comes to an end:

It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

If I wrote fortune cookies inspired by Bruce Lee

"Take things as they are. Punch when you have to punch. Kick when you have to kick." -Bruce Lee

Walls can keep us safe...walls can also hem us in. Be water. Water finds a way through walls.

Distractions exist to rob us of endurance, to break us down, and make us ineffective. At best, distractions can inspire, at worst, they can become the very deathblow to faith, confidence, and hope.

Never resist distractions or set-backs...never succumb to discouragement and fear. Acknowledge these as gifts...as plateaus...plateaus from which to further ascend, to confront, to utilize for your advantage, to master.

Let not that which cannot be achieved slip away from your sites. Press on. Sometimes the goal isn't meant to be reached...it is merely something to aim at...

The only thing that separates our ability to be all we could possibly be is our own willingness to accept defeat. Why quench the power of victory? Push the envelope. Reach, strive...fail and fall...and continue to will the win. Failing and falling are stepping stones in every successful event that has ever transpired under the sun...you are not alone.

A man can have intellectual wisdom, but his wisdom is worthless without having been in the arena, himself. Having been bruised, beaten, and exhausted...being forced to discover how to endure despite seeming failure. Embrace failure and frustration...welcome disappointment. They will become the very callousses of your spirit that will protect you on your journey if you don't lose heart and cave in to fear and doubt.

Never let someone else's negative influence have contact with your core. That which is from them is theirs. Never leave their negative influence upon your heart as though any aspect of their destruction belongs to you. Shed emotional connection to such. They require nothing from you.

Embrace only that which is purely deserving of your praise, honor, faith, and respect.

Knit yourself to that which edifys. Free yourself from fear. Shout your flaws to the world and remove your shackles to that which binds you.

Wisdom is not an aspect of intellect...wisdom is a verb.

"Let the spirit out - Discard all thoughts of reward, all hopes of praise and fears of blame, all awareness of one's bodily self. And, finally closing the avenues of sense perception, let the spirit out, as it will.”

"If you always put limit on everything you do, physical or anything else. It will spread into your work and into your life. There are no limits. There are only plateaus, and you must not stay there, you must go beyond them.”

Mark Buehrle Tosses Perfection!

Eric was texting me about a game going on against the evil Tampa Bay faction of wife beaters and convicted felons...

I didn't know it was him...nor was I the slightest bit interested in some random Tampa Stupid Bay game...nor some random Chicago White Sox game...I was knee-deep into an online checkers game against some person from China and I was not about to lose...

Took a breather when the game was done...funny...I don't even recall right this moment if I beat the China dude...

Checked my texts. This is what I read:

1. Chicago is whooping up on Kazmir. Buehrle is no hitting them thru 5inn

2. He's thru 7 now, and Happy Birthday Darlin

3. Oh Shit he is pitching a perfect game

4. Perfect thru 8

5. And he faces the bottom of the order in the 9th

6. Ok here we go. 9th inning

7. Buehrle is perfect. 9th inn starting

Well, NEEDLESS TO SAY...i RAN LIKE HELL to find my remotes...wondering how long ago the last text arrived...wondering why the hell I hadn't somehow KNOWN about this...through the baseball gods or something...

TREMBLING as I clicked on the television, hoping to find WHICH STUPID CHANNEL MLB EXTRA-INNINGS would have this game on...and

BOOYAH! It was being shown LIVE on ESPN. I came in right about here...

watch and enjoy my friends. What an awesome way to officially start my day...and I am soooo grateful for good friends...who never give up on you...who continue to reach out...and bring a little slice of heaven into your world.

Happy Birthday, indeed. ~kathryn

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Cisco Kid Was a Friend of Mine: Yankees Option Francisco Cervelli

I guess I knew something was amiss when I saw Jose Molina at the game this afternoon.

I guess I had already become keenly aware of the fact that Molina's 15-day DL stint had been going on several months now; and I had read several articles where he seemed quite unhappy.

I guess it doesn't take a genius to realize that the money the Yankees organization had shelled out to Molina wasn't going to simply be squandered while he sat on his thumb in Scranton for the remainder of the season...

(But then, again...Who knows? I mean, I guess I had reason to think nothing might change, and Molina could learn to be happy...?)

Major League franchises don't just waste money however, so why would I think Molina might never return?

I dunno. Ask Brian Cashman.

Better yet, ask Carl Pavano.

Francisco Cervelli was optioned by the Yankees today. Jose Molina has returned to the roster. I would theorize a few people are relieved...and I theorize a few of those people might actually see the move of Cervelli back to the minors as reasonable and responsible.

Whatever for them....

Sure, I like Molina. He's a fine catcher and I can win the Name-that-Molina game when playing along on SportsCenter because of him.

But...I like Francisco Cervelli heaps better than either Molina or Jorge.

Sacrilege, I know. But, the honest-to-God-truth.

I guess the first time I can honestly recall coming to the realization that there was a person on the planet by the name of Francisco Cervelli, was a year and some change ago...a couple of seasons ago...when I used to peruse the Minor rosters and crunch the stats and play the game of hunt-and-seek-the-next-rookie-Yankee-phenom with myself.

(It was a short-lived game due to the fact that:

a: We have no draft picks to develop-- as we are idiots with regard to trades and really don't give much of a shit for saving our draft picks; and

b: what we really want is a win NOW-- Not in 3 years or 4 years--NOW. We only develop our "prospects," so we can trade them off, usually for some broken- down, ego-centered asshole who will contribute absolutely nothing for our team, aside from a controversial headline or two and perhaps an arrest or sordidly slanderous book, eventually.)

(Makes me wonder if Randy Johnson's shoulder is feeling better this week...)

(And I guess Roger Clemens isn't in prison yet?)

I digress.


I had seen his name, but never really opted to invest interest in the lad, as he was merely in the AA and hadn't really had much experience prior to that. Or so I thought. I was sorely mistaken, and his experience is vast.

Francisco Cervelli (born March 6, 1986, in Valencia, Venezuela) was an international signee by the Yankees in 2003 and played in the 2009 World Baseball Classic for Team Italy. He is a Venezuelan of Italian descent.

In Venezuela, Cervelli played shortstop, second base, and sometimes pitched. The Yankees signed him as an international free agent on the stipulation that he would try catching.

Cervelli played in the Dominican Summer League in 2003. He arrived as a switch hitter, but was encouraged to bat right-handed. After struggling to adjust in 2004 and 2005, Cervelli batted .309 for the Single-A Staten Island Yankees in 2006. In 2007, he played for the Tampa Yankees, where he batted .279 with an OBP of .387 and two home runs. Baseball America rated him the 23rd-best prospect on the Yankees prior to the 2008 season.

On March 8, 2008, he fractured his wrist on a controversial play during a spring training game against the Tampa Bay Rays, when a Rays infielder collided with him at home plate in the ninth inning. He didn't return until June 2008. Cervelli was called up to the Yankees where he made his major league debut on September 18, 2008, as a defensive replacement.

He began the 2009 season with the Double-A Trenton Thunder, until he was called up by the Yankees on May 5, 2009, when Jorge was placed on the 15-day DL. Cervelli made his first major league start on May 7, after Molina injured his quad. He had 3 major league games of experience prior to this call up, and had never played Triple-A. He recorded his first major league hit, a single, on May 8, against Baltimore, while also catching for C.C. Sabathia during a complete game shutout. Cervelli is hitting .269 since his call-up.

The Yankees are 15-8 in games with Cervelli catching.

The Yankees were a game over .500 and 3 1/2 games out of first place when Cervelli arrived. They are now 15 games over and one game out.

Another Yankee prospect sent back to a field where idiots like Kei Igawa rule. Another season of allowing complacent veterans to reside on a field, in a game, during a season where: it really doesn't matter how it all comes out in the end. The contracts are set, the money is guaranteed.

The infield liners are glanced at, the pitches are always called for fastballs, and the latest sunglasses and hairstyles are of chief import.

Again: Whatever...

I'm not going to go into all the stats over our boy Francisco. Quite frankly, I'm too tired and it will only feed my frustration. Suffice it to say: He was beyond impressive. Google it. Discover what I know. And to what conclusion might you arrive? Just another ball player...just another team...just another year...

It's only a game...

Yeah. It is. But...beyond the typical stupid Wednesday I've spent gassing my car and chasing down dental vendors over missing products...Francisco Cervelli was a spark of enthusiasm that I eagerly looked forward to beholding on a daily basis.

The Kid mesmerized me with his natural ability. His composure and stealth against opponents...his knack for drawing the pitcher into a place of confidence...calling pitches with the greatest of ease...opining to flow against the current effectively.

And his bat wasn't all too bad either.

It was Cervelli who ended the 14 inning hit less streak moments after Girardi's ejection against the Braves...


It was Cervelli who suffered a broken wrist during Spring Training against the evil Tampa Bay faction early last season which lead to an everlasting hatred of all things Tampa Bay in my heart and mind...

It was Cervelli who came in when both Posada and Molina fell...having only 3 major league games under his belt at the time...

...from the first moment he appeared until even this present moment, I am grateful and proud to have supported, prayed, laughed, and enjoyed what this phenomenal young man has brought to this team I love...

Heroism.

The Yankee heads say they can see a "place for him in the majors, someday." Inasmuch as I appreciate their well-wishing as they scoot the lad onto the first outgoing bus, I have to wonder: WHO'S TEAM?

Forgive my cynicism. But, I've endured many years as a Yankee fan. I've seen the flavors of the month come and go. I've seen "losers," like Ohlendorf traded away like chattel and re-discovered their thriving lives in places like Pittsburgh...

Hell. Who hasn't once been with us? Mike Lowell, Carlos Pena, the list is endless. I hate it. I hate the way we shell out money for names. I hate the lack of passion and hunger for the game. I hate the smugness based on numbers from a season that never amounted to one damned thing...but a fat worthless paycheck.

Oh...whatever. I'm tired. The Yankees will do what the Yankees will do...and I will stand behind them, even if that means that I don't always agree with what they do...and I will become frustrated when they once again settle for second best...or third...or worse...settle for having the names...having the money...

...but crumbling in the first round...

...if we even get that far.

and...in between it all...I will have the opportunity to see the kids sneak in...when a fat-paid vet gets an ingrown toenail and is on the DL for a month...


then...I will get to see the Ramiro Pena's and the Cody Ransoms and the Francisco Cervelli's of the world...I will get to see them come up and play like unleashed lightning bolts, who will sizzle the world, and dazzle their onlookers...and they will engrave a smile deep into my heart of hearts...then I shall be satisfied...then I shall remember what makes this game so amazing to me...

the hunger...

and the heroes.

"Show me a hero, and I will write you a tragedy." -F. Scott Fitzgerald

Is Josh Beckett Immune from Being Ejected?

"God d-mn it! That was a f---ing ball?!"

This is the story about Todd Tichenor's first four ejections of 2009.

I was outside on my patio yesterday morning...talking on the phone about the game...sipping a Red Bull...watching through the glass door...when I beheld a rukus...

It appeared that Jason Varitek was having an issue with the strike zone NOT being called in his favor, which I found amusing.

Inasmuch as Varitek has been exceedingly brilliant in calling for outside pitches which no batter in their right mind would swing at, Varitek has also mastered the feat of framing said pitches to the exact "sweet spot," of the strike zone (within nano-seconds of catching them) thus causing the umpires to call them for strikes.

Sometimes this framing-effect requires a readjustment of several inches...but Varitek is an ace...a Master of the Grand Illusion...In fact, I'm fairly certain Jason Varitek was a zillionairre pick-pocket in another life...where he was probably also a cross-dresser...but I digress...

"God d-mn it! That was a f---ing ball?!"

One would think if Jason Varitek uttered these words at the officiating umpire, he would be ejected. Well, he was ejected. But Jason Varitek didn't utter these words...

One would think if Terry Francona uttered these words at the officiating umpire, he would be ejected. Well, he was also ejected. But he, also, did not utter these words...

In fact, let's just haul off and toss in a couple of them guys from the Minnesota Twins and eject them, too.

Let's say one of those guys could be Mike Redmond, catcher for the Twins, and let's just say Redmond opted to toss out a few choice words at the officiating umpire...

Words like "I got his arm."

OUT.

And let's wrap it all up neatly into a neat little package of Redmond's manager, Ron Gardenhire, simply inquiring why his catcher was ejected, by asking "Why did you eject him?"

OUT.

It all really started off with Dustin Pedroia. "Mr. Woodland, California," hit a fly ball to right fielder Jason Kubel, who immediately threw it home. Redmond caught the ball and clearly tagged Jeff Bailey, who attempted to slide his arm in at the last second. Tichenor called Bailey safe.

Crew chief Jerry Layne: "I just looked at our replay and it's inconclusive."

Jeff Bailey: "There's no question a tag was made. Did I get my hand in there first? I really can't tell."

Mike Redmond: "I thought I got him at home and that's it. I just said, 'I got his arm.' I didn't swear at him or anything. In 11 years in the big leagues, I've done a lot worse out there and stayed in the game. I didn't expect to get thrown out. I didn't touch him or anything."

Vice president of umpiring Mike Port said he watched some of the game at his office in New York, but he did not feel comfortable commenting on Tichenor's performance until he was able to watch the events, then read Tichenor's report and review the ejections.

Uh huh.

Well then...you may ask...who the hell uttered the words:
"God d-mn it! That was a f---ing ball?!"

Why, I reply:

Mister Josh You-Can't-Eject-Me-Cause-Clearly-I-Have-Diplomatic-Immunity-From-Ever-Being-Ejected-Even-If-I-Curse-The-Very-God-You-Refer-To-On-Your-Printed-Currency-and-Whom-You-Pray-To-When-The-Chips-Are-Down-In-Fact-I-Can-Take-Head-Shots-To-Bobby-Abreu-Whenever-The-Hell-I-Want-And-Still-Stay-In-The-Game Beckett, himself.

All four ejections occured in the seventh inning of the Boston Red Sox at Minnesota Twins game yesterday, at the discretion of Home Plate Umpire Todd Tichenor.

These are the 48th, 49th, 50th, and 51st ejections within MLB for 2009. There have been roughly 48 games played this year.

a quick muse and thought--

...like fingernails to a chalk board...

...like the slip of your knife while slicing lemons...

...like the explosive burst of a midsummer's moth on your newly waxed windshield...

...chewing foil...a thorn in your sock...sand in your eye...a dead battery...that one driver who cannot figure out what to do when the light turns green...

josh beckett is all of this to me. all of this


and so much more.

yankees / red sox begins again tonight at fenway.

i hold no opinions, whatsoever, for it's outcome. no predictions. no forecasts.

i hold my breath.

if joba hurls one high and inside upon youk, all hell will break loose.

we know this.

if lester hauls off and drills our boy jorge in the shoulder, it will be considered unintentional, however.

thus...i theorize the one who will drill jorge in the shoulder will be javier lopez.

i theorize they'll go after jorge for obvious reasons. THAT, and he's the best producer, relatively speaking. THE MOST DAMAGE.

who would OUR target be? (insert appropriate explanation that bean-ball wars are offensive and immoral and the american league does not conduct itself like those heathen national league anti-heroes.)

our targer will most likely be jason bay.

it might be lowell due to his rbi contributions...

but bay is just open season.

mind you: i abhore HBPS. i hate them. i think they're more inhumane than being forced to watch jonathon papelbon exhale right before he stares down the batter while pursing his lips for 3 minutes.

but

this is the yankees v. boston.

this isn't necessarily emotion and intellect free baseball.

in conclusion...as i actually must show up at work today---

i've seen joba "lights-out," at fenway. i've seen lester melt within 2 innings. i've seen them ALL blow it...i've seen them all seemingly possessed by sandy koufax.

anything can and will happen.

but this ain't september.

if the red sox present with the same demeanor and skill that was displayed in anaheim...we will sweep them.

key to today's win for the yankees: lay low. fly under the radar. work lester's count and get to the bullpen.

ttfn. ~kat

...with my good eye closed...

“Can I buy you a drink?” He repeated, this time his face beginning to blush.

My betting line was taking much longer than usual. I wasn’t so sure who to hate more. The woman at the counter, with her orange-pink hair that matched her pink-orange press-on fingernails…or each fat, balding, cigar-smoking better clogging up the line. Two minutes until post time, the man directly in front of me, spending an eternity on placing his bet, continued to wave his stubby arms while adjusting his thick glasses and reinserting his non-lit cigar nub back into his mouth every 3 seconds.

I found myself drowning my thoughts with the guitar solo from Soundgarden’s “Good Eye Closed.” When the music flows from my mp3 player, into my ears, into my brain, and throughout my bloodstream, it’s a drug I enjoy.

I enjoy riding away from reality…envisioning scenarios of absolute absurdity. Motion Picture Epic clips…the ceiling collapsing, perhaps.

I check the rafters. Steel. Pity. Steel is faily firm.

Refocus, Fat man still waving…cigar still unlit...

A flood. All the money floating from the cash registers…coins sinking…the unaware, and drunk, lingering on the bottom…me, floating and pocketing wet hundreds at the top…

He appeared out of nowhere, tapping me on the shoulder, saying something.

I rip out my headphones, “I’m sorry, what?”

“Can I buy you a drink?” He repeated, this time his face beginning to blush.

“No, thanks. I never touch the shit.” I replied automatically, while turning back to see it was finally my turn to bet. Miss Orange-pink waiting almost impatiently, “Thanks, anyhow.” I said while I took a step forward, “I’ll take $10 on the 1 to win.”

As I reached the last set of double doors at the racetrack, a thought hit me. Like a Mac Truck to a Chevy Luv on the freeway a midnight. In the rain. Going downhill without brakes on black ice.

He asked to buy me a drink. I’ve never so much as talked with the guy a day in my life. Why would I? He was this zillionaire horse owner, trainer, driver…I was just a handicapper. I mean, it was cool and everything, that he was trying to talk with me…but why would he care if I was thirsty or not?

A photo finish. Damn it! Why would there have to be so many photo finishes when it’s 2 degrees outside, pouring down rain? As I watched the instant replay of the finish, I clearly saw I won. I opted to return to Soundgarden and images of catastrophic fun. Looking around for structural weaknesses or other causes for calamity, I saw him through one of the windows. Smiling and raising his glass at me, I wondered how long I had been staring in his direction without noticing him. Instantly I was aware of the contrast, him sitting amidst all of the beautiful women and successful men…the skimpy dresses and 3 piece suits…the ambient lighting and energy-efficient heaters…HDTV’s and booming house music…

Me: blinking in the misty rain while wiping my nose with my glove. I waved back.

“It’s official,” is echoed on the steely speakers overlooking the winner’s circle…myself and a couple of fat, balding men slowly walk back to our eternal line from before. Miss Orange-Pink has been replaced by an elderly woman with a wig so black, it could be imagined a black cat fell asleep on her head, having been drawn to her from an uncontrollable attraction to her blinking fake gold lucky dice earrings.

“With my good eye closed,”…the realization of his encounter resurfacing to my puzzled mind…escaping again…I see the building fill with water…coins and drunks to the bottom…hundreds and me, scrambling atop…

but this time…also afloat...atop…smiling…warm…him…waving me over…

The New York Yankees 2009 Spending Spree: The Quintessential Duct Tape Mouth Gag Response to Lack of MLB Parity

You gotta love the fights within Major League Baseball. I mean, hell, this ain't hockey. No one expects a professional ballplayer to just haul off and deck some mouthy batsman. Then again, we relish the moment it happens...

....You could always count on Kyle to flex some muscle...after all...when you can't find the strike zone with a 100+mph fastball...people begin to get edgy...fastballs whiffin past their heads...I dunno...kinda rude. But hell. That's why they wear helmets, right?

PARITY WITHIN MLB.

Ohdearjesus.

If i hear ONE MORE whining band-wagoner of the Pittsburgh Pirates scream FOUL over the Yankees' recent spending, I will literally hurl.

Now, we all know, the actual term isn't to be referred to. Not in recent days. Yes, yesteryear the term "parity," was used...but...as of the SELIG REGIME, one must appropriately apply the words "competitive balance," to any conversation, written or otherwise, when talking parity.

So, the shite hit the fan. The Yankees bought every single last free agent on the planet and spent a zillion dollars and are thereby destroying major league baseball via their big pockets, monopolizing, and extortion...causing "poorer," teams to disintegrate into a quad-rillion chunks of molten metal, flying through the atmosphere, never to be heard from again...



The evil empire attacking poor Alderaan.

Well, i submit to you: get over your personal hate of the Yankees for just long enough to be intelligent. Inasmuch as I enjoy a passionate argument just like the next guy, an unintelligent-passionate argument is just plain stupid. If you're going to have passion, apply it aptly. Keep your wits about you.

The concept that the New York Yankees have been successful in buying championships has long since been disproved. Thank God. As a Yankee fan, witnessing year after year after year, the mismanagement of the acquisitions, the whittling away of our possible prospects, and the collection of has-been free agents; I wholeheartedly applaud Tampa Bay for demonstrating: THE LITTLE GUY CAN FLOURISH.

(yeah. when you lose eternally, you get HELLA TIGHT DRAFT PICKS, HONEY, and can make the post-season, eventually.)

I digress.

PARITY.

IS THE SPENDING OF THE NEW YORK YANKEES EQUATING TO A DIMINISHED EQUALITY OF COMPETITIVENESS WITHIN MLB?

let's review some of the facts together, shall we?

Since 1995, ALL BUT 6 TEAMS HAVE MADE IT BEYOND THE ALDS/NLDS AND HAVE APPEARED IN EITHER THE CHAMPIONSHIP SERIES OR THE WORLD SERIES.

ALL BUT 6.

In the ENTIRE LEAGUE.

Of those 6...many issues revolved around team ownership, or management...but...money, or lack of money by no means was the PRIMARY REASON for failure-to-thrive.

What other sport can declare that nearly every team within their entire league has made a post-season appearance within 13 seasons?

There is only 1 World Series winner who had a payroll over $100 MILLION DOLLARS:

THE BOSTON RED SOX.

Twice.

Clearly...there is more than 1 team who has spent over $100 MILLION DOLLARS, in order to make the playoffs and/or win the World Series.

Fact is: there are 7.

NYY: 01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07
BOS: 04, 05, 07, 08
LAA: 04, 05, 07, 08
CHI: 08
NYM: 06
LAD: 08
CHC: 08

TEAMS WHO SPENT OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS AND DID NOT MAKE THE PLAYOFFS IN THE YEAR THEY SPENT OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS:

BOS: 01,02
ATL: 08
NYM: 03, 05, 07, 08
SEA: 07, 08
LAD: 01, 03, 07
CHI: 06, 07
DET: 08

TEAMS WHO SPENT OVER $200 MILLION DOLLARS AND DID NOT MAKE THE PLAYOFFS IN THE YEAR THEY SPENT OVER $200 MILLION DOLLARS:

NYY: 08

TEAMS WHO NEVER, IN THE HISTORY OF THEIR TEAM PAYROLL, EVER SPENT $100 MILLION DOLLARS AND, IN FACT, DID MAKE THE PLAYOFFS IN THE LAST 10 YEARS:

STL: 00, 01, 02, 04, 05, 06
ARI: 99, 01, 02, 07
CLE: 99, 01, 07
FLA: 03
HOU: 99, 01, 04, 05
MIL: 08
MIN: 02, 03, 04, 06
OAK: 00, 01, 02, 03, 06
PHI: 07, 08
SDP: 05, 06
SFG: 00, 02, 03
COL: 07
TBR: 08

Wow..based on this evidence...OUTSPENDING BY NO MEANS IS OUT-COMPETING.

...And, we ARE talking about "competitive balance within the MLB," right?

Because we certainly cannot simply be espousing some emotional anti-Yankee TOO MUCH SPENDING/DESTROYING THE LEAGUE diatribe to the whole world in response to the Yankees' acquiring Sabathia, Burnett, and Teixeira, right?

(A cute little side note to the Yankee-haters: uh...even IF the Yankees hauled off and picked up Manny, they'd STILL be SPENDING LESS IN 2009 THAN THEY SPENT IN 2008.)

I submit to you, the pesky Oakland Athletics have opted to NEVER raise their payroll to $100 MILLION DOLLARS,and they have made the playoffs 5 times. Those pesky Cardinals have also showed up in Ooctober 6 times in 9 years; without spending even half of what the Yankees spend.

IF the contention of all the Yankee-hatin' NO-PARITY-IN-MLB-OH-GOOD-GOD-GIVE-US-A-SALARY-CAP-LORD-SELIG is correct...and spending increases competitive imbalance...then please explain to me HOW the St. Louis Cardinals have managed to appear in the playoffs WITHOUT EVER SPENDING $100 MILLION DOLLARS, EVER, ON THEIR PAYROLL---> 6 TIMES in the last 10 years?

Please show me the clear evidence that exists to differentiate SPENDING=COMPETITIVE IMBALANCE when the mean differential between SPENDING divided by PLAYOFF APPEARANCES between a NON-SPENDER and the HIGHEST SPENDER is 1.

Since 1999: St. Louis spent less than $100 MILLION DOLLARS and made 6 playoff appearances.

The Yankees have repeatedly out-spent the entire league every year since 1999, and have made merely 7 playoff appearances, by contrast.

There are 7 teams who have spent over $100 MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR, who amassed 14 failed seasons, never even securing a position within the post season.

Conversely, there are 13 teams who have NEVER SPENT OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS, EVER, who, over the last 10 years, amassed 37 playoff appearances.

It is an unintelligent argument to contend that consistent competitiveness and spending are related.

I would suggest, based on the overwhelming evidence, that the opposite be true. In order to be consistently competitive within the MLB and to secure a post season position, NEVER SPEND OVER $100 MILLION DOLLARS.

...Then again...I could be wrong...

A salary cap is NOT the answer for the MLB. The Players Association would NEVER allow it, we'd have a strike, and Selig knows full well how much money would be on the line.

I don't believe the league is unequally competitive, based on the achievements of nearly all teams. I do, however, believe many team owners and/or CEO'S are highly irresponsible, apathetic, and greedy, when it comes to seeking further growth and profit for their team and it's players.

If I were to suggest any remedy for teams with less financial aptitude: I would suggest an adjustment of the revenue sharing and luxury taxes, HOWEVER: it would only make sense to do so with an enforced stipulation from team owners and management, that they be held accountable for re-investing those monies back into draft bonuses, player development, and payroll. And NOT to be used to line their own pockets while their team remains in ruin and ineffectuality.

“Jealousy is the tribute mediocrity pays to genius.” - Fulton J. Sheen.

we are now, officially, IN HELL.

...a couple of weeks ago, i finally broke down and went to my doctor.

a sore throat, and various other torturous maladies of which i was beset, were harshing my usual Mary Sunshine self...

therefore, i submitted myself to the might-as-well-just-burn-the-money-before-my-eyes experience of visiting my doctor.

mono.

"no treatment necessary. just suffer, hun. don't forget to pay on your way out."

insurance, you say? hahaha. like they'll touch 1 red cent of the hiked up fees THIS OFFICE intends to stick you with. feel better soon...

i guess it was somewhere around saturday or friday...i don't recall...when the mother got me on the phone to inform me that Mr. Igawa had taken the mound.

...a Major League mound, that is. not just the AAA or the AA...but our mound...in one of our games...against the evil Mets...that is: he was actually carrying the precious future of my team on his-stupid-inept-self.

and i guess it was at that point i realized: torture and malady can be far worse, even when one feels like they are on the doormat of death...

torture and malady are temporary.

hell is forever.

welcome to the july portion of the 2008 yankees season. pull up a chair.

i'm not going to go into how bad it is with stats and theories. what good would it do? besides, google all that. you'll see how melky is 0 for 2,506...and how rivera can get 22 out of 23 save opporunities with a 0.00 era...but a non-save? hell no.

i'm not going to go into everyone's OPS, OBP, or SLG. that takes too much time, and it's annoying having to make sure you have everyone's numbers correct...and, quite actually, it's just horrifically confusing.

how in the hell can we have the players we do and have 5 runs in the past 3 games? against piss poor texas...and the equally inept Mets?!

come on.

pitching. let's focus on pitching. let's get a good pitcher and all will be well. really? well, lately, (aside from the game-winning run rivera allowed last night) pitching has dialed in. not stellarly, but adequately.

run support. what a joke. it's like a prayer for god to feed all the impoverished countries and their destitute. having a concept of the answer and actually executing that concept into action are two totally different things. either way...a meal...or a homerun are just temporary solutions to an ongoing problem. tomorrow, the need for food (and runs) will return and the solution must resurface.

teach a man to fish?

these are highly paid men we are discussing. entertainers, athletes...however you wish to quantify the new york yankees, do so. but these men are paid to perform. and yes, i realize, no man is a machine, per se...but...when you have no fewer than 55 thousand paying no less than 40 dollars per ticket to watch a team compete in a major league baseball game:

could you just fucking try to win?

who to blame...?

melky. girardi. cashman. arod.

me? i'd prefer to simply hate the evil tampa bay faction. really. it almost pains me to see what they've been doing to the satanic group of evildoers known as: the boston red sox.

yes. that's right. it bothers me to see boston lose. now that's sick.

but really. these icky little creepy tenacious assholes. the evil tampa bay DEVIL ray faction who shall NOT lose their DEVIL-named status EVER in MY BOOK. these smarmy little shits, who seek a brawl with any and every one

who...for whatever reason, in years gone by...had only the yankees' number...and left the rest of the league alone, while they sat in last place for the east all season--

look. it goes like this: the red sox go on a losing streak and the yankees get excited and start hittin everything under the sun. then the red sox wake up and the yankees go under...

it's natural. the yin and yang. yankees / red sox. the only time we're both on the upswing is september. generally we all fart around before the all-star break. we aim at gaining 17-20 wins a month prior to that...but no one is wearin blisters into their hands or feet over it before july.

and this evil tampa bay faction of assholes just hauls off and decides to slither in on our slackass time and grab 1st place in the division for their damned selves?

i hate them. garza. evan. their new owners.

and everyone is on their bandwagon. even my boss. tampa bay all the way and all that. while the yankee fans and the red sox fans fight and quarrel amongst themselves over just WHO to blame for their seeming individual (yet conjoined) failure(s.)

look. melky may be in a drought. and our pitching may be shit right now. and the red sox may be struggling with whatever it is they struggle with...

(bathing?)

but. this is july 2nd. and the only reason why this feels shittier than it usually does is because we have a team who is monopolizing on our devil-may-care attitude before the all-star break.

if new york or boston intend to play ball this october...we best get to gettin. because it ain't devil-may-care, hon---> the devil rays DO CARE and they are showin it.

the agony of defeat?

our boy joba...no bugs this time...

2.1 innings pitched...12 batters faced...62 pitches thrown...1 hit allowed...2 runs scored...and with 30 of those pitches not being strikes,  it's a wonder he didn't walk more than 4.

he did strike out 3, though. 

(but that balk in the second inning kinda blemished that seeming roll he could have been on...had he, in fact, been on a roll...which he, clearly, was not on, nor would he be on, anytime in the forseeable future. in fact...even if there had been a roll provided for joba to get on, he probably would sought a way to butter it and ingest it...am i right or am i right?)

joba.  no bugs.  yeah.  the jolly little messiah...and *poof* before the disbelieving eyes of zillions of fans and foes...(and bakers of rolls)... we witness the pixie dust blowing off joba like a city worker sandblastin' a graffiti'd wall at the mayor's office...

...more or less...

look.  i have no problem with joba giving away 2 runs.  i don't.  honestly, i don't even mind it when moose, or pettitte, or wang, or any of them other spin-the-wheel-rookie-rotation-flavor-of-the-month-why-is-he-wearin-that-number?-guys does it. 

2 runs.  so what...

it's not the 2 runs joba allowed by the 3rd inning that bother me. 

it's the 6 runs in the 7th inning that pisses me the hell off.  that's all. the 6 runs in the 7th.  yeah.  i have an issue with the 6 runs allowed in the 7th...

...to the smarmy likes of these losers...

stairs and rios?  why them?  we hate them!

i think MLB should fine and sanction any major league pitcher who allows more than 5 runs in any inning beyond the 6th.  i think they should be forced to have those tear drop tattoos put on their faces, like them prison gang dudes...you know the ones...those dudes who have a teardrop for like every gang member who they know who's died...or is it every person they've murdered?  yeah, whatever.  that teardrop shit is something you see, but you don't question. 

(you also don't question their big letters tattoo'd across their backs, their choice in music, low riders, nor weapons.) 

but my point.  yeah.  i say it is high time for mlb to force them pitchers who allow 5 runs beyond the 6th to have some accountability for their actions.  and i'm talkin accountability the whole world (and opposing teams) can SEE.

those tear drop tattoos.  i think it's fair.  they put warning labels on consumer goods and buildings and all that...why not relief pitchers?  just a thought.

now.  as per joba and our bullpen and our rotation and all the lack of hitting....

whatamigonnasay?  it's june?  we'll still make it?  jeter and cano are gonna come around and when posada returns everything will be alright?

nah.

joba's first start reminded me of another dismal starter...long ago and far away.  may 23, 1995, to be exact.  this fellow went out and pitched 89 pitches in 3.1 innings.  he allowed 8 hits, 5 runs (all earned), and walked 3.  the yankees went on to lose that game, with a score of 10-0.

that pitcher's future would be discussed the following year, during spring training, along with the future of a 21-year-old rookie shortstop, who was also bumbling his way into the majors.  turns out the mariners had a shortstop they were willing to trade for the ill-fated pitcher, and steinbrenner saw this as an opportunity to part with both of these players. 

it took more than two hours to convince steinbrenner not to do it.

that pitcher...who's first major league start against the anaheim angels on may 23, 1995, mariano rivera would stay and became a hall of famer.

and so would the 21-year-old shortstop prospect, whose name was derek jeter.

"We are all faced with a series of great opportunities brilliantly disguised as impossible situations." - Chuck Swindoll

yankee pitching woes, chapter 2,506

arod is back. thanks for consistently having contact with the ball. ....uh, yeah....


darrell "if-it-weren't-for-those-5-hits-i-could-have-pitched-a-perfect-game," rasner.


7.0 innings pitched last night, 5 hits, 0 runs. that's not not good.



but, you know. hell. it's just one game. why get all fussy over rasner? i mean...we have other places and people to fixate upon, ya know?


one night, last season, when the yankees were all up-in-arms over lack of pitching, rasner came in and pitched a gem of a game...

yet: no reporters sought to speak with him. why, you ask? i shall tell you. because THAT was the night the yankees opted to inform the media that roger clemens would be rejoining the team.

last night was another lets-show-up-rasner's-contribution night, and the yankees chose, last night, to inform the media that our boy Joba will become a starter.


shocking. no one saw this coming. yeah. wow.

rasner has started a total of 3 games this season, and has pitched a total of 19 innings this season. rasner has allowed 4 runs for 3 starts. he's all that and a bag of chips. thanks, darrell, if you haven't heard it enough: you matter.




ahhkay. and now we're back to our boys Joba (far left; the lion) and IAN-I-PITCH-LIKE-SHIT-KENNEDY (dorothy.)


(wow. is that a real dog in that basket?)


(wish he would have bit ian's pitching hand.)


yes. our boy kennedy will once again take the mound tonight and dish up another win to the team we oppose.


my forecast for tonight's game: mister kennedy will go no longer than 4 innings and allow no fewer than 10 runs. heheh.

sorry...lately it seems like we've stretched our bad pitching into double digit runs allowed, i figure i'd stay in that vein.

okay. and so that takes us into the next point of discussion. with joba starting, who will the set-up man be? okayfirst off, i don't like the set-up-man thing. i don't. i say the 8th inning should be a match up thing. i really do. and not on the torre level of "no-fewer-than-5-relief-pitchers-used." i would prefer using a starter for 7...matching it up in the 8th, however that applies, and then bringing in a closer.


but the yankees wish for a set-up-man. the 1-2 punch. we've sought that for years. and it, ineffectively, has never arrived.

options. we have (brace yourself:) kyle farnsworth (who, up until the last game wasn't so bad then revealed to us the reason why we despise him) and edwar ramirez.


dude. i say if you have to choose 1...go with edwar. please. (did you know edwar has pitched in 9 games this year and still has not allowed 1 run? true. edwar has a 0.00 ERA. albeit, he has pitched 10 innings total and last year in 21 innings he allowed 19 runs...i still think he is a safer bet than kyle.)


(this year, alone, farnsworth has pitched 20 innings and allowed 9 runs. not so long ago he logged in 46 innings and gave away 47 runs. i dunno. 102mph fastballs. hard to control, i guess. i say bring him in when desperate. or when edwar needs rest. or when we need to retaliate and we want it remembered.)

(who said that? lord. we all know farnsworth can't be held responsible for off pitches. they go where they go, right? right....)


yankee pitching woes. chapter 2,506. and here we are again. some good news is we have our boys mark melancon and danny mccutchen warmin up in AAA. things could improve. and they better...cause i'm fairly certain we won't have moose nor pettitte next year. so, we better get to figuring this shit out. it's frustrating playing spin-the-wheel with these veterans and rookies, but we all know how outings can go bad. ask wang, moose, and pettitte.

shit, ask kennedy. no, don't ask him. he'll pontificate how, "aside from that one pitch which was hit for a grand slam, i had my stuff---"

(and all the while, when interviewed, he behaves like someone shoved a spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth. literally. he's constantly smackin his lips and licking his teeth. it's icky. i say: don't diet, just watch an ian kennedy interview before snacking. you'll lose your appetite, promise.)

From the Dusty Archives: How I Became a Yankees Fan

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity; it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going directly to Heaven, we were all going the other way." (Charles Dickens—A Tale of Two Cities.)

As the afternoon sun poured onto the desktops it illuminated the dust. I sat...head down...pretending to read, but gleefully watching my classmates inhale the shiny particles. Mimi and Jenny—they were Brownies. They were the pretty ones. The teacher always picked them for hall monitor or sending a memo to the Principal. Their mothers were home all day long and would stop by to bring the class cupcakes.

Tommy Johnston had eyes that could cut glass. I tilted my head to see if he was breathing in the dust...but this time, I imagined the dust was poison. The kind of poison they spray in wars. The kind that would kill you within seconds. No one would know until you dropped like a rock. You would look fine until 1 second before you died.

Tommy Johnston was breathing the dust. I smiled.

As the bell rang I grabbed my shawl. I loved my shawl. It was the only "hippy," kind of clothing my conservative mother would allow me to wear. My shawl was pink and purple with these happy and joyful paisleys dipping and turning in every direction. Chartreuse and gold...it was soft. Sometimes I slept with it.

Jimmy Joe Mayer and Tommy Johnston began to yell—Jimmy Joe was my friend. He had been born with a hole in his heart. He was small, like me; so we were always the last two in line...year in and year out.

Jimmy Joe told me one time we were standing outside, waiting for the teacher, in the pouring rain that he was afraid he would die as a kid. I told Jimmy only bad kids die young. Jimmy asked me why so many bad kids were still alive. I told Jimmy I didn't know.

The red etch-a-sketch flew to the ground and slid under Jenny's desk. "See what you did" Tommy Johnston snapped, while pushing Jimmy Joe away from him, into the blackboard.

"I hate you" Jimmy Joe yelled lunging toward Tommy Johnston...his eyes welling up with tears, his face bursting with a crimson anger, his fists clenched so tightly that his white knuckles didn't disappear when he unclenched his fist to wipe away a tear.

The etch-a-sketch lay on the ground—blank.

He gently picked it up...cradled it in his hands...exhaled into sobs, and fell to his knees.

As his shoulders and head dropped he whispered, "It's gone. It's gone. I hate you, I hate you...I will always hate you for this." I slowly tip-toed from the both, toward the door...looking down, I saw nothing on the etch-a-sketch, but a tear.

I don't know if Tommy Johnston was the first person I ever truly hated, but at that moment, I truly hated him enough for all the other hate I would ever need for anyone else for the rest of my life.

As the rain shot through the plumes of grey exhaust from the car in front of me, I wondered. I wondered about the new season. I wondered about the players. Other teams—the rivalries. I wondered how long it could possibly take for them to finish up with my order of large fries and cheesecake.

I shifted the car into park, took my foot off the brake, sat back, exhaled, and turned up the radio. As the plumes of grey fog mixed with the falling rain I saw particles of silver dust.

"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns it's lonely eyes to you."

Tommy Johnston's mother bought Jimmy Joe a new etch-a-sketch...as Jimmy Joe had not only lost the picture of Joe DiMaggio he had worked on all winter. But Jimmy Joe's etch-a-sketch lost it's little "sketcher," pin when it hit the ground.

It couldn't sketch a thing. Tommy Johnston had the idea that since Jimmy Joe had a new one, Tommy Johnston wanted to take the broken one and put it on the train tracks. Tommy Johnston heard that etch-a-sketch's were filled with dynamite, and if you hit one hard enough, or set one on fire, they would explode into a million pieces that would shoot into the sky for over a mile.

The moon was almost full as we crept in the overgrown lot. I only went because Jimmy Joe asked me to, but I was shivering and I was frightened. The field was uneven and I kept falling into the weeds...my shawl getting caught on the stickers. Tommy Johnstone was laughing and running toward the tracks, yelling back to Jimmy Joe and me to, "Hurry up."

"This is as far as we go," Jimmy Joe blurted, his chest heaving from the half mile walk. "What do you mean, you baby?" Tommy Johnstone yelled, his silouhette elongated by the moonlight stood 70 feet tall on the weed tops. "Just go do it," Jimmy coughed, "go on."

We crouched down into the dewy weeds, looking toward the east part of town as we heard the train speeding up. The powerful thumping of the engine coming in faster beats. "Are you sure it's on there?" Jimmy whispered as I slapped a mosquito near my ear, "Yeah, it's on there alright. Just you wait and see," Tommy Johnston boasted, his eyes wide open, licking his lips as the headlight came toward us.

I adjusted my windshield wipers as I entered the freeway. An 18-wheeler pulling up right behind me, I opted to lay low on my arrival—feeling the burst of water as he shot past me. The hot oil burned my fingertips as I reached into the bag. I licked the salt crystals off my fingertips, and took a deep breath as my heart sank when I heard the first few chords sneaking into my ear...

"Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence..."

I had chosen to never listen to that song after the summer when I was in 3rd grade. Tonight something in my heart was ready. Something made me let it come in. Something caused me to turn it up and exhale...

I let it permeate me. I let my heart feel the flood I'd held back for so long. I felt the pain behind my eyes and throat grow sharp...and heard myself breathing heavily as my eyes filled with tears.

As the windshield wipers slapped the dirty freeway water off of/and back onto my glass-and-steel pseudo-"confessional," of a car...I felt the presence of the past. I felt the sting. I instantly realized the floodgate that were opening in my mind, and the memories hit like a tsunami.

"You're a liar!" Jimmy Joe screamed, throwing his hands to his sides—just a silver puff of smoke! That's all I saw! Just a silver puff of smoke!"

As we slowly walked in silence through the field, I played the impact over and over in my mind, like the very dust particles everyone inhaled that day, sparkling with the train's headlamp—like glitter in the twinkling of an eye.

It was a Saturday afternoon, I could hear the faint tune of the ice cream truck perusing the neighborhood.

My mother yelled my name from the living room.

As I neared the bottom of the stairs, I could see a mountain of clothing waiting for me—as well as her messy hair and exhausted eyes.

I knew better than to try and argue with her when she had that look. As I sat down on the floor, I heard her talking with my dad in the kitchen, adult chit chat, boring grown-up stuff. I looked up at the television—baseball.

I looked back at them, and back to the television. Would I? Could I get away with changing the channels? The rule of thumb in my home was no one under the age of 99 was allowed to change the channel, day or night.

The most random, God-awful programming was almost exclusively selected by them. I was certain this was one of those bad things that happen to children when they grow up, they become boring sadists to anyone younger. Especially their own children.

As I reached for the shiny silver knob just a foot or so from the tip of my nose, I heard my mother yell, "Don't even think about it."

As I sat back down on my heels, I began to feel imprisoned. The pile of underwear, towels, and socks seemed like Mt. Rainier. I grabbed a sock and made a decision. I can't really even remember why, but I remember when.

Since I had no other choice than to sit in front of this mind numbing sport show, then I would pick a team to root for. I remember looking at the players, looking at their uniforms and trying to decide who would be "my team."

I found the mate to the sock and folded it into a ball. The players all look alike, and I could never like this stupid game anyhow. I can't even hit a ball with a bat. But Jimmy Joe could! Just then I looked at the score...and I decided to choose the team that was losing.

That team was the New York Yankees.

The Yankees won that day, but I was never able to tell Jimmy Joe.

Jimmy Joe never returned to school that Monday. He had drowned in the American River on Saturday, trying to help a younger child who had fallen out of a raft near the rapids. The younger child survived, but Jimmy Joe was brought to the shore, lifeless.

That Wednesday afternoon, my teacher called me into the hallway. She reached into a book and pulled out a card. She handed it to me and said, "Jimmy Joe's mother brought this to school to give to you. It was his. And she wants you to have it."

It was a 1952 Topps Baseball card...I'll never forget it. The impish smile on the face of some old guy.

But that old guy, he was wearing my New York Yankee's hat! The team I had picked while folding clothes the same day Jimmy Joe died.

I lost my best friend in the 3rd grade. I was all alone at the end of the line in the hallway at school, and life would never feel as innocent and curious again, I thought.

But Jimmy Joe knew someday I would find him again. The New York Yankees were Jimmy Joe's favorite team, and I never knew that until my teacher handed me that Topps card after I had picked them as my team while folding clothes...

That's where it began.

A few years later, when I was in Junior High, I remember being in p.e. and my teacher demanding I spit out my chewing gum.

I recall clearly being sent to the front office and explaining, in tears, that I had been chewing that wad of gum since the playoffs—and if I stop—the Yankees will lose the World Series.

They gave me a Kleenex...and a note for my teacher to let me chew.

Tommy Johnstone was a Dodger fan and would try and make me cry when I would wear my Yankees hat or talk about baseball to any of the kids. Tommy Johnstone was convinced Ron Cey was the best ball player God ever created. 1977 and 1978 were the most hellish years I believe I ever faced as a Yankee fan due to Tommy Johnstone and Ron Cey. But, in the end, the Yankees won...and Tommy moved away.

(Someone told me Tommy Johnstone went to prison for check fraud some years later...but I never really looked into the story to see if it was the truth. It sounded fairly probable to me and I wouldn't want to remember him any other way, quite honestly.)

I carried my Topps card in my back pocket for years, until it disappeared one day. I never was able to find it...now that I am an adult, I think it was probably laundered and didn't survive. I believe my mother shielded me from the broken heart I wouldn't have been able to bear at that time in my life.

I remember the day my mother took over an hour to console me when she discovered my No. 44 Reggie Jackson t-shirt had not survived one of the only washing/drying cycles it had ever been subjected to. I wanted to bury it in the backyard at sunset, and: we did.

I remember Bucky Dent. I remember Reggie. I remember Billy Martin yelling and screaming. I remember George Steinbrenner punching someone in an elevator.

I remember the day Thurmon Munson died, and Bobby Mercer not only spoke at his funeral, but played in a game that night against the Orioles that few will ever forget..

I remember thinking the crowd was booing Lou Pinella...and telling my mom I would never go to Yankee Stadium, where they boo their own. She went on to explain to me they were yelling, "Lou."

Friends came and went. I fell into and out of love. I went to college and grew up, and the Yankees were with me every moment of the way..

I remember when we farmed Jeter. Rivera. Posada. Bernie. Pettitte.


I remember finding myself in a motel room, some years later...bored...homesick...clicking through the channels...and there they were—my boys in pinstripes.

It had been years since I had paid attention to baseball. I had become sidetracked with other things in life...distracted by the seeming demands of being an adult, and yet: there they were.

The playoffs—Jeter & Williams—some kid named Maier interfering...and I was home.

Years would go by but somehow, I always found myself watching my boys in the fall. A few times they went all the way—a few times not.

I grew up with the Yankee haters.

Hell, I fell in love with, and subsequently lived with one. And literally, he would come into the room, while I was watching a game, and point out how they sucked, how stupid they were, how they were overpriced assholes.

He's gone now, they remain.

Honestly, I can't remember a time when the Yankees weren't a part of my life. Then again, I remember thinking I could never imagine not seeing Bernie on the field, or Paul O'Neill.

I know. It's only baseball.

But, to me...it's more.

It's life.

It's being a part of something bigger than keeping an appointment, paying your bills, and gassing your car.

It's the opportunity to ride on the wings of your favorite slugger and round those bases with him.

It's the bottom of the 9th, two outs, 3-2 count—bases loaded—and relishing the anticipation.

I am so grateful for every moment I have laughed, cried, argued, and mused over my team—the New York Yankees. I wouldn't trade one moment of my many years with them for all the tea in Boston. I have learned alot through these many seasons of triumph and glory—disappointment and loss—sometimes it's heaven, sometimes it's absolute hell, but, this is life...and they will always be a part of my life.

As I reached the parking garage elevator, my fries had grown cold. My nose was stuffed, and one quick glimpse in the mirror informed me of my need to avoid all contact with others. I pressed the elevator button and glanced behind my shoulder to the garage camera, aimed right at me.

Just then, to my right, a Porsche pulled through the gate on the west side—as I glimpsed to see it...I beheld the raindrops illuminated against the night sky...like glitter...dust...memories...everywhere...and I smiled...

(Dedicated to Jimmy Joe Mayer)

the king, the queen, and the pizza.

many moons ago...one lazy evening, i was kickin back...just hangin on my back patio. and, yeah, it was my birthday...

i remember i had had a busy week...and i was kinda diggin on the idea of just sittin, watchin the sunset, and sippin on my vodka and oj.

(there's alot of drinking mentioned in this story. make sure to read my footnote thereafter.)

(for the record: it was an egregious act on my part to drink and drive...that would be one decision i would make differently today.)

anyhow...yeah...my friend mary is all yellin over my fence...she's thrilled about something...and so i invite her over...

i theorize this is where the mischeif began.

mary informs me she had JUST closed the deal on the sale of this hugeass mansion on the outskirts of davis. and the dude to whom she made the deal was some dude somehow associated with the sacramento kings.

which meant not one godamned thing to me.

being a semi-intoxicated yankee fan.

so yeah...and then...well...i seem to recall...i was pretty done with the vodka. so i suggested we celebrate...her sale, my birthday...and we opt to go get more vodka.

i drove.

mary had this kickass convertable...porsche...maybe something else...dunno.

but the sucker was hella powerful...and SHE WAS WILLING TO LET ME WIND THAT BABY OUT. so...first thing i do is get some music goin...in this semi-Thelma-and-Lousie moment...i opted for Billy Idol's White Wedding.

and so it began. and the music...and the summer sun setting...and we are doin triple digits on the I-80...

she's tellin me about the house. mary's all going into how this place has like an attic AND a basement...and she was makin it sound amazing. i was all, "dude. you MUST show me..." and she was all, "well, we haven't exchanged the keys yet...i guess we COULD..." and i was hella thrilled.

some short time later, mary and i were sippin our drinks on the front lawn of this bigass mansion and laughin our asses off at everything.

and...after a while, we opted to finally go inside.

and this place WAS amazing. it was massive. i mean the rooms were hella huge...and they all had like these massive closets...and yeah...the attic and the basement and different stairs off the kitchen and formal living room..

i seem to recall it was at that point i became hungry. i remember sayin we should order a pizza.

and so...i remember somehow mary ordered the pizza...and we would have to hang there for another half hour...

and then we were gonna bail before we get arrested for breaking and entering or something...

so...i suggested we play hide and go seek...

and mary hid

and i just kinda forgot my role in the game...

and then i remember us wondering where the pizza was...

and mary suggested i go hide

so i did.

i was in this one bedroom closet up the stairs off to the far left...

and i was laughin and talkin to myself.

then i decided i should shut the hell up...

silence.

and i was like, "dude. she's not gonna look for me..." but, i knew mary...she would.

so i hid again.

but i remember i sat there for a while. so i layed flat on my back...on the floor of the pitch black closet...and i decided i should HELP MARY OUT WITH FINDING ME...so i began to sing Bohemian Rhapsody...

and i was laugin and doin all the voices...and singin like LOUD...hella loud, actually...

and

well...

i got to about the "i'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me" part...

when

the closet door slowly opens.

instantly i behold what had to be THE TALLEST BLACK MAN I EVER DONE SAW.

and he's lookin at me layin on the floor

and i said, "dude. did you bring the pizza?"

literally.

yes...it was a king or a friend of a king or someone.

and apparently mary had informed this guy and his friend we were there...and that's why she wasn't lookin for me...and they all thought it would be hella fun for him to confront me

as i was worried about us becoming hella criminals, trespassing, felonious mischief...and whateverelse the d.a. could nail us on...

i dunno

i seem to recall eatin the pizza...shootin some hoops...and then i woke up safely at home.

the next day i was tryin to remember everything that had transpired...and i was wondering if we had been as wasted as i thought...

i walked toward mary's apartment and beheld her car...it was taking up 3 parking spots.

and it remained that way the entire day.

many morals to that story

if you're gonna trespass in a tall black mans house...and he just so happens to be a king...don't be messin around in his walk-in singin queen.

:)

happy monday all

♥kathryn

According to data from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), in 2005, 16,885 people were killed in alcohol-related crashes - an average of one almost every half-hour. These deaths constituted approximately 39 percent of the 43,443 total traffic fatalities.
This is a slight decrease from 2004, when 16,919 people were killed in alcohol-related traffic crashes, representing 39 percent of the 42,836 people killed in all traffic crashes.Nationally, alcohol-related fatalities are fairly flat, down .2% from 16,919 to 16,885 and fatalities involving a driver at or above a .08 were down 1.2% from 13,099 to 12,945.

http://www.madd.org/